


in too much space we hide

by spock



Category: Handsome Devil (2016)
Genre: Age Difference, Best Friends, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, Preference For Older Men, Romantic Comedy, Teacher-Student Relationship, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-22 17:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17064368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: Conor tries to think of someone, anyone, their age that he fancies and comes up short. It’s possible that he might actually have a specific type after all.





	in too much space we hide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lycanroc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycanroc/gifts).



Conor’s wondered, just a bit, why it is that he doesn’t quite fancy Ned. It’s not that Conor doesn’t think that he’s good looking, because Ned is. The whole indie punk thing isn’t a turn-off, even if Conor does think some of the lengths Ned goes to stand out are a little silly.

They’d made out once, both of them slightly pissed off a bottle of cheapo wine they’d snuck into their room. And it was — fine. Not something he’d felt a burning need to continue on with, but certainly not the oft-lamented, it’s-like-kissing-a-brother books and teen films loved to harp on about when friends give romance a go.

Ned has no such issues in summing up why Conor’s not the lad for him.

“It’s not that you aren’t fit,” Ned says, as if that was a concern plaguing Conor’s mind. Except, maybe he’s a little vain, since it _is_ good to know it isn’t that. “I’ll watch you do those shirtless press-ups and run around in your rugby kit with your bits bouncing all of the place until the cows come home. I just like,” he stares off into the distance for a moment, “River Phoenixes. And Kurt Cobains.”

“Dead, straight Americans with a bit of a moody drug issue?”

It typically takes more than a little cajoling on Conor’s part, but Ned sometimes can be convinced to help him out with rugby training. Conor regrets that now; the pillow Ned lobs at him coming quicker than he can react to, smacking perfectly into the intended target of Conor’s face.

“Piss off, you.” He catches the pillow when Conor tosses it back to him. Conor is clearly the better friend, since he refrains from trying to decapitate Ned with it when he does. “So what’s your type then, Mr Sports Man?” There’s a very long pause before he asks, “Beckham?”

“I’m really proud of you for coming up with an actual athlete,” Conor says, “even if it did take a whole decade off our lives.”

Ned gives a half-bow from his bed. “So?” he asks, “Am I right, are you into,” he picks up his phone from the nightstand and unlocks it, typing on the screen for a moment. “Huh, I could have sworn he was a rugger. Anyway, do you like douchey smirks and tattoos? Is that what gets you going?”

“Not sure I have a type, really,” Conor says. He’d likely take Ramos over Becks if he had a choice, but it’s not as if he’d toss either out of his bed. River Phoenix had been a bit gorgeous, he’ll give Ned that, and he’s got a crush on Idris Elba, just like the rest of the world.

“So just men then,” Ned surmises. “Men who aren’t me.”

Conor nods, “That about sums it up, yeah.”

He expects the pillow assault this time.

 

* * *

He’s still thinking about it the next day in class. Types can be broad, sure, and someone can have multiple different types they go for, but Conor must have at least one, surely?

Conor goes over all the guys he can remember fancying, both in the theoretical sense and some of the drunken flings he’s managed, searching for a common factor beyond them being, well, men.

They’ve been focusing on poetry in Sherry’s class this term. Most days he has the boys take turns reading a poem or two before they discuss them, and it’s been slow going. For some reason he’s decided to switch it up today, reciting a poem himself. It’s a long one, something that doesn’t rhyme, and it’s easy for Conor to zone out in favor of his type-problem.

“Who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists,” Sherry says, and that brings Conor right back, along with the rest of the class, all of them sitting up straight in their seats.

Conor leans over to whisper to Ned, “What _is_ this?”

Ned levels him with a disgusted look. “Ginsberg, your uncultured neanderthal.”

“And screamed with joy,” Sherry continues, “who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love.”

Sherry pauses in his reading, eyes sweeping across the class. “Oh, now you’re interested, yes? Suddenly poetry isn’t so boring? I had to promise Curly that you were all big boys and wouldn’t faint at the sound of it,” he flaps the book in his hand in front of him a few times, “And would you look at that, turns out Ginsberg’s more your speed than Shakespeare or Yeats after all. Who amongst us could have predicted!?”

They’ve all long gotten used to Sherry’s eccentric theatrics, and even the dumbest of the class figured out how to spot a rhetorical question by the time last year had come to an end. They keep quiet and let the rant run its course.

Sherry reopens the book and gets back to reciting the poem with a shake of his head.

Conor pays much more attention this time around. The poem carries on and Conor finds himself enraptured by it. Not just the words, but the way that Sherry reads them.

The bell eventually rings and everyone starts packing up. Conor waves Ned off and heads to where Sherry’s mussing about his podium.

“Mr Sherry,” Conor says, getting the man’s attention. Sherry twitches a bit, his shoulders tensing.

He’s always been, well, _awkward_ around Conor. It was how the man was in general, really. Conor figures it’s because Sherry was a bit of a nerd, like Ned, and even though Conor didn’t think of himself as much of a jock, the label fit. He knew better than most that old habits weren’t the easiest to shake, and Sherry probably had a lifetime of first-hand learning to be awkward and tense around lads like him.

The whole mess of running into one another at the gay club likely hadn’t helped. Obviously.

“Conor!” Sherry says. “What do you need?”

“Uh, could I borrow the book?” Sherry stares at him blankly, so Conor points down at it. “The Ginsberg fella?”

“Oh!” Sherry picks it up and hands it to him. “Howl, yes, of course. Make sure you bring it back with you tomorrow, yes? We’re going to be doing one more.”

Conor smiles at him in thanks. “So was he gay then?” he asks. “Ginsberg?”

Sherry’s expression turns serious, the way it does when he’s about to tease one of them. “Famously,” he practically intones.

“Guess we really can be anything,” Conor says. “Poets, rugby players, punks,” he holds up his fingers, ticking them off, “teachers.”

A blush rises to the surface of Sherry’s face, sudden and, to Conor, unexpected. He worries that he might have overstepped, but Sherry doesn’t seem especially upset or angry. “The cheek on you!” he shouts. “Off you go, don’t be late for your next class.”

 

* * *

He reads through the book that night, after practice, as Ned and he are getting ready to turn in.

“Reading poetry in your free time officially makes you gayer than me,” Ned says. He’s doing something on his phone, apparently only needing to employ a smidgen of his attention to adequately roast Conor. “I just want that to go on record.”

“Aren’t you still a virgin?” Conor shoots back. “I think we have definitive proof that I’ve been gayer than you for a while.”

“Alright, funny man,” Ned lets out an exaggerated sigh. “You being a slut has nothing to do with you being gay. There’s a correlation, but it’s not causation.”

“I swear to god,” Conor sets the book down on his bed and fakes that he’s going to get up. “If I have to hear one more fucking maths joke out of you,” he warns.

“Alright, alright,” Ned says, laughing, his hands held up in defeat.

Conor resettles himself and picks the book back up. Ned’s got a record playing, the sound down low so that Conor can concentrate on his reading, but it’s nice background noise as silence descends over them.

“Sherry was really on one today, wasn’t he?” he asks after he’s finished up a poem.

“When isn’t he?” Ned flops over onto his front and plugs his phone in to charge for the night. “I bet he has Dead Poets Society permanently sitting in his DVD player.”

Conor stares at him.

“History Boys?”

“Alright, I’ve seen that one.” Conor tries to remember the finer details of the plot. “The teacher was gay in that, right?”

Ned nods. “Hey,” he asks, “Would you go for Sherry? Seeing as he’s a man who isn’t me and all.”

Conor thinks about it. And realizes that he would.

It must show on his face, because Ned laughs. “Really?” he says, like he doesn’t fully believe it. “Well, I guess he is sort of cute? In an old man sort of way. There’s definitely worse out there, anyway.”

Conor thinks about that. Cute, in an old man sort of way. Conor doesn’t think he’s all that old. He tries to think of someone their age that he fancies and comes up short. It’s possible that he might actually have a specific type after all.

 

* * *

Sherry waves Conor over to his podium before class starts. Conor hands him back the book, and Sherry asks him if he liked it.

“Yeah,” Conor says. He tries to check Sherry out as subtly as he can. He’s slightly shorter than Conor, and he is fairly cute. He’s lithe, and dresses well enough, school code permitting. He’s got a nice reading voice.

“Would you mind reading whichever was your favourite?” Sherry needles.

It brings Conor out of his musing; his eyes going wide. Sherry makes as if he’s about to thwack Conor on the shoulder with the book, but stills before he actually does, hand frozen between them awkwardly. “Not that you have to!” Sherry says, hedging. “Don’t feel like you must. Just! If you have one that you like. And you’re up to it,” he finishes, a bit lamely.

Conor smiles a little. “Are you actually giving me a choice,” he asks, mildly surprised, “instead of just throwing me to the wolves?”

“Character development.” Sherry laughs quietly at himself. “Well, what do you say? I guess I could always spring it on Ned, he’s good at rising to the occasion.”

“Are you suggesting I can’t?” Conor plucks the book out from between Sherry’s fingers. “In case you haven’t noticed, anything Ned can do, I can do better. Consider me risen.”

Sherry places the back of his hand to his forehead. “Such confidence!” He lets it drop back to his side. “Alright, once the bell goes, you’re up.”

Conor walks to his desk and sits down. Ned is throwing a weird look his way and scoots closer to say, “Were you having it on with Mr fucking Sherry?”

“What?” Of all the daft things. “No,” Conor insists.

“If you say so,” Ned says, not at all looking convinced. “I guess I’m not an expert or anything but—”

“That’s the truth,” Conor mutters.

“ _But_ ,” Ned glares at him, “you both seemed way too smiley for the usual bantz.”

“Too smiley,” Conor repeats, because honestly. And then, “Please, never says bantz again. It just sounds sad coming from you.”

“Cheeky bantz,” Ned says in a sing-song. The bell rings, before Conor can take a swipe at him, and everyone settles into their seats.

“Conor’s going to read another Ginsberg poem for us, and then we’ll be breaking off into groups and come up with some discussion about free verse before we move more firmly into tackling epic poetry, hm?” At their mumbled agreement, he nods to Conor.

Sitting up straight, Conor flips through the pages until he finds the poem he’d liked the most, and begins reading. “What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman,” he starts, and then carries on with the rest. It isn’t as long as the one Sherry had read yesterday, but he still loses himself in it as he recites it.

 

* * *

He’s pretty much over the whole type thing by the week’s end, after the internet’s reassured him that liking men older than him isn’t overly rare or strange unless he’s into, like, grandads, which Conor isn’t. But the experience has got him thinking about related subjects. Like dating, and figuring out what actually being _out_ is like. He’s out now, for better or worse, and graduation is closer than it is far. Who better to quiz than someone in Conor’s target demo?

He heads into the staff housing after lessons are done and makes his way to Sherry’s room, knocking quickly. Sherry answers after a moment.

“Conor,” he says, “how can I help you? More teenage angst?”

Conor figures that if Sherry can be a bit of a shit, then so can he. “Exactly,” Conor nods, “I need more gay advice.”

Sherry looks like he’s about ready to have a stroke. Conor doesn’t feel that bad about it in the least.

“Isn’t there some sort of,” Sherry’s mouth works soundlessly, grasping for something, “YouTube tutorial for this? I teach English,” he stresses.

Leaning back against the wall opposite Sherry’s door, Conor doesn’t back down. “How’d you get your boyfriend to go out with you?” he asks. “Like, how does one go about actually getting a date?”

Sherry sputters. “Conor this is inappropriate,” he says, though his voice doesn’t sound especially firm. “Go away and leave me be, you devil child.”

“Seriously?” His tone must convey exactly what events Conor’s recalling just then — their rather clandestine, accidental run-in at the pub — because Sherry manages to look a bit contrite.

“Alright,” Sherry says. “Well, I’m not the one to ask. My boyfriend’s dumped me,” he seems to realize that’s not especially _appropriate_ to share with a pupil, and changes tracks, “That is to say, we had an amicable decoupling, entirely mutual, not that it is even slightly your business,” and he’s gearing up for one of his rants now. “Besides, I have no idea what you young lads are up to these days. Apps, I suppose? Although honestly, Conor, I’m sure Ned will be fine with whatever you come up with. That’s the main benefit of being friends first, you know? That it doesn’t need to be especially awkward.”

It’s a lot to process, so Conor answers the most relevant bit of all that. “I’m not looking to ask out Ned,” he says. “We don’t see one another that way.”

Sherry throws his hands up. “Who else are you meant to be asking out, then, Conor?”

“I dunno,” Conor mumbles it. “Just someone, I suppose?” He feels a little put out, the familiar urge to lash out bubbling up inside him. He’s got more control these days than he used to, and it’s not as if he can punch a teacher anyway.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve got a _thing_ for older men,” it’s Conor’s voice saying it, but he can’t for the life of him actually remembering giving his mouth permission so. “So I figured, why not ask you?”

It would appear, Conor realizes, that he’s finally learned to fight with words rather than his fists. Clearly he’s spent far too much time with both Sherry and Ned, and all he’s got to show for it is another way to get himself into trouble He expects Sherry to object to being called old, or to tell him to stick to boys his own age before instructing Conor to fuck off back to the students dormitory.

That isn’t what happens. Sherry’s face to goes white as a sheet. He reaches across the hallway, taking Conor by the front of his shirt, yanks him into his flat, and then actually shuts the door behind him.

Their faces are rather uncomfortably close together when Sherry hisses out, “Is this some sort of cruel joke?”

There isn’t much Conor can say to that. He stares at Sherry with his back to the door from where he’s been deposited against it, confused.

And mildly aroused. He’s only human.

Sherry pushes away and starts pacing the room, fingers twisted in his hair. “I don’t know what game you’re playing here, Conor, but I thought we’d agreed to put everything behind us!”

“Hey,” Conor says, frowning, “I never told anyone about—”

Sherry makes another frustrated noise. “No, I mean,” Sherry gesticulates wildly to the space between them, “Are we really going to keep pretending not to remember after you’ve said something like that?”

“I—”

“Last summer was a mistake on both our parts, Conor, honestly!”

 

 

 

 

Conor had been just the right amount of pissed, at the time. Not so much that he wouldn’t be able to get it up if he needed to, but enough that he felt positively conversational, outgoing and sure of himself. Decidedly un-Conor-like.

He’d mostly gone out that night to escape the uncomfortable presence of his father. They were in town to check out the new school Conor would be attending that autumn, and the thought of why he was switching schools in the first place made Conor want to be sick.

After having googled and finding a local place that was on the opposite side of where he and his father’s hotel had been, it was easy enough to skip out; his father had gotten them connecting rooms, and he was used to Conor shutting himself away lately. Conor doubted he’d even bother knocking until morning.

So he hadn’t exactly been looking for someone, just wanted to be around other people like himself who weren’t constantly looking at him like he was a nutter, or worse. A few guys had bought Conor drinks, though none of them had really caught his interest.

But then he’d spotted a man at the bar, nursing a drink and keeping mostly to himself. There was an air about him, something that had Conor needing to speak to him.

Conor slid up beside him, placing a hand to the back of his chair, anchoring the other against the bar. “Here by yourself?” he’d asked.

The man had taken one look at him and then gave a sort of bemused smile. “Bit early to be this far gone, isn’t it?”

“Not that far gone,” Conor corrected, smiling back. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I am indeed here by myself,” he nodded.

Conor leaned in a ways, speaking at his ear. “I’m not so sure you are anymore.” His nose brushed the man’s cheek, and he didn’t lean away from the contact.

“I fear you’re right.” He swiveled his seat, facing where Conor stood, their faces rather close together all of a sudden. “Dan,” he said.

Conor told Dan his name and then stuck his hand out between them, an excuse to touch. Dan’s smile told Conor that he knew as much, but he’d taken Conor’s hand anyway, giving it a lazy shake that Conor didn’t let go of once they were done.

“Dan,” he’d said, because he was shit at flirting at the best of times and hardly had much experience besides, “I think you are very cute.”

“I’m cute.” Dan looked at Conor like he thought he was thick. “You’re barely old enough to have gotten through the front door,” he gave Conor a thorough once over, “mate.”

Conor resisted giving Dan as thorough an inspection. He’d done his looking on his walk over to Dan, anyway. “Why do I get the feeling that was the first time you’ve ever said ‘mate’ in your life?” Conor asked. “Did you only say it because I look sporty?”

“ _No,_ ” he had insisted, instantly. Conor stared at him. “Alright,” Dan said, with more than a little exasperation and embarrassment. “Perhaps! I suppose it is possible, that I may have tried to seem a bit more butch than I actually am in order to impress you, Conor. If you must know.”

“I’m impressed,” Conor promised. “Since we’re being honest, I think you’re even cuter now, though.”

Dan kissed him. His hands came up to Conor’s jaw, and he’d petted Conor’s fringe away from his forehead. They pulled back, and Dan declared, “I suppose you’re a bit of alright.”

Conor bumped their noses together. “Alright?” he’d asked.

“What I mean to say is,” Dan tried to look very serious, “you’ll do.”

“Thank god” Conor had said, with humour, and then he’d leaned back in to kiss him again.

They’d made out for a while, right there at the bar. Eventually Dan had asked if Conor wouldn’t mind going someplace. Conor had agreed, but mentioned that they couldn’t go back to his.

“That’s fine,” Dan said. “I live alone.”

When they’d arrived at his place, Conor had laughed at all the boxes. “New in town?” he’d asked. He’d been sitting in his underwear on Dan’s bed, much quicker at getting himself undressed than Dan had been.

Dan, to his credit, had seemed a bit too distracted watching Conor take off his clothes to bother focusing on his own. “Just moved,” he’d said, working at getting his belt off. “Got a new job starting in the fall that provides housing. Didn’t seem worth it to bother to unpack.”

 

 

 

 

 

“I had no idea you were a student, obviously,” Sherry says, still fidgeting around the room.

“You look very, well,” he trailed off, visibly trying to collect himself. “Anyway, I did try to talk to you that first day, after class. I went to bring you some books but Ned was the only one in your room, and you never mentioned it again, so I figured we were fine. A one off!”

He looks at Conor seriously, as if begging Conor to get with the program. “I should have known better than to go back to the bar you so clearly have no scruples sneaking into, fair,” he seemed to be saying it more to himself than to Conor, now. “I tried to bring it up again on the train, after the nonsense with the rest of it, but it seemed counterproductive to bring it up after we’d just agreed to ignore the latest embarrassment. So.”

Except now that Conor’s remembered that much, the rest comes rushing back to him. Making out in Dan’s cramped, temporary one-bedroom flat on a lumpy mattress that had come with the place. The two of them rutting against one another before Conor hadn’t been able to stand it any longer, taking them both in his hand, working them over until they’d finished, one after the other.

Him giving Dan his number but being too scared to reply to the handful of inquisitive messages he’d been sent, before Dan caught on that he’d been ghosted and let Conor be.

He thinks about being on the train with Sherry months ago, and how he’d been so keen to make sure that Conor wouldn’t say anything, about _anything_ , ever.

“Um,” Conor says. “You’re right. I clearly didn’t think this through. I’d better go. I shouldn’t, uh, be in here.”

“Oh fuck,” Sherry said. “I’ve got you in my room with the door closed!”

Conor figured that much was obvious, but maybe Sherry was just cluing in. He knew the rule and why it’d existed, but it hadn’t seemed like such a big deal, before. Now, he figured they shouldn’t tempt fate more than they already had.

“It’s fine,” Conor said. He twisted, still standing against the door, and checked to listen for anyone in the hallway. “I’m not about to report you.”

Sherry looked relieved, if not a bit ill. “I suppose it’s what we’re good at. Keeping secrets, and all.”

Fairly certain that the coast was clear. Conor opened the door enough to glance into the hallway. Reassured, he stepped out into it.

“Er, Conor,” Sherry stepped out with him, closing his door behind him, as if removing some sort of temptation or escape. “I’m sorry you’ve got to deal with this. I feel awful; it’s unfair to you, and I’d give anything to change the past, but I’m afraid we’re stuck with it. So...sorry, I guess.”

Conor nods. “It’s honestly not a big deal. I’ll see you Monday.”

He walks back to the stairwell and takes the steps down two at time. He couldn’t’ve been up there talking to Sherry more than ten minutes, but to Conor is feels like his world’s been flipped upside down.

Because now that he’s remembered properly, he can’t stop thinking about how much he’d liked Dan, that fact that Mr Sherry is Dan, and how good they’d been together. How he’s slightly annoyed that Sherry said that he’s sorry for it all, and that he’d like to change it.

It’s possible that Conor does have someone specific in mind when he thinks about who he wants to ask out, and that someone specific is Dan.

 

* * *

Ned’s in their room when Conor gets back from the staff’s housing.

“I’ve never been more glad that you’ve got no other friends and hardly leave the room.”

“Woah,” Ned says, drawing it out. “Rude. Just for that, I don’t want to hear whatever you’re clearly bursting to say.”

“Ned.” Conor sits on Ned’s bed and takes him by the shoulders. “You know how you’re absolutely shit at keeping secrets and great at ruining other people’s lives? Specifically my life,” he clarifies, just in case Ned’s forgotten.

“Yes?” he says, sounding interested now.

“I need you to be the opposite of that person right now. Can you do that?”

“I mean,” Ned seems to consider it, “probably not? But I can certainly try?”

It’s not ideal, but Conor has to tell someone, and Ned’s his best friend.

Now or never, he supposes. “I’ve slept with Mr Sherry.”

“Oh my god,” Ned gasps. “You only dropped your bag off thirty minutes ago!”

Conor shoves him to the mattress, getting him into a headlock. “Not today, you complete sodding virgin! Before last year started.”

“Well how was I supposed to know!”

Ned’s gotten better at roughhousing, and he manages to free himself, not that Conor’s trying all that hard to keep him trapped. He flops onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, and tries to think of what he’s meant to do. Ned tips forward so that his face floats into Conor’s line of sight.

“That’s big news,” Ned says. “And most importantly, it means that I was right, and you two _were_ flirting in class.”

“We weren’t.” Except that maybe Conor was, subconsciously. “Wait,” he says, sitting up.

Conor may have blacked out for a while on the events of that night, but Sherry had remembered, and it’s entirely possible that he had still flirted with Conor anyway.

“So say I forgot that Dan and I hooked up—”

“ _Dan_ is it?” Ned interrupts.

“But now I remember. And he says that it was a mistake and he wouldn’t have done it had he known I was his student, but I don’t see it that way. And I mean, I’m of age now. And we graduate this year. The fucking,” he waves his arms above him, “odds aren’t that against us? He was flirting with me even though he remembered, right? And he thought I remembered too.”

“Have we decided that’s a plus?” Ned asks, but shuts his gob when he sees the glare Conor’s leveled at him. “Definitely a plus.”

“How do I get him to consider actually dating me?”

“I think you mean,” Ned says, “how do _we_ get him to consider dating you.”

 

* * *

Conor nods at Sherry as he walks into to class, trying not to give anything away. Everything is fine, he reminds himself, he’s been doing this daily for months now. No reason anything has to change. Not even the fact that Conor has intimate recollections of just what Sherry looks like as he’s coming, or that he likes kissing in the early light of the morning, or how he makes a fine cup of tea.

Sherry nods back at him, blank-faced, and Conor figures that he’s succeeded.

Ned walks in a minute later, and he does nothing but stare at Sherry the entire time, practically tripping over his own desk as he tries to sit down without taking his eyes off their teacher.

“Awesome,” Conor says.

“Conor,” Sherry calls, sounding strangled. “Can I speak to you outside for a moment?”

He stands up with a sigh. “Seriously,” he says to Ned, “well done.”

It’s close enough to the bell that there aren’t that many boys in the hallway, and those that aren’t in their classrooms are rushing past them, not paying Conor or Sherry any mind.

“Did you tell him!?” Sherry says, managing to yell even as he’s keeping his voice to a whisper.

“I thought we weren’t talking about that,” Conor says in lieu of an answer, proud of how much calmer he sounds than Sherry at the moment. It has to give him some maturity points.

“We aren’t,” Sherry agrees. Then he sort of stalls out, all at once.

“Okay,” he says, mostly for wont of filling up the suddenly awkward silence. And then, because he figures this might be his only chance, and it was Sherry who brought it up anyway, “Hey,” he licks his lips quickly, “Ned supposes you were trying to set he and I up to get rid of temptation or something. Is he right?”

Sherry might look less shocked had Conor sucker-punched him.

The bell goes.

“Oh my god, the bell!” He practically convulses away from Conor. “Thank god for that bell. Let’s get to class, time to learn.”

 

* * *

“I say we trap him when he starts teaching us Homer this week,” Ned’s saying. “Go to tutorial hours and ask him about how the Greeks did things. Sparta and all that, you know.”

“Ned,” Conor tries to interrupt him in his scheming for at least the fifth time that hour, “I don’t want to _trap_ him.”

Ned strokes his chin like a bad impression of some old Hollywood villain for a moment. “Yeah, all I’ve got are traps.”

“Marvelous.”

“Well!” Ned turns on him, fire in his eyes. “How did you get him last time?”

“We were both drunk and had been in the one place on earth where every man was pretty much a sure-thing and on the pull themselves,” Conor says.

Ned snapped his fingers together. “That’s it! I’ve got it.”

 

* * *

Conor couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He stands up from his bed and crosses the room, clamping a hand over Ned’s mouth to get him to shut up.

“Let me get this straight,” he says. “And just nod for me if I’m on the right path.”

Ned nods.

“So you wrote a letter,” a nod, “that said for Sherry to meet me at the bar in town this Saturday,” another, “signed it with my name,” again, “and snuck it under his door this afternoon for him to find tonight.”

Ned nodded a final time.

“Being your friend was a mistake,” Conor says. “I realize that now. It took me a while, there, but now I finally see.”

He lets go of Ned’s mouth and falls back down onto his own bed, face first.

“Oh come on,” Ned argues. “You have to admit, it’s not all that bad a scheme.”

“It’s all bad.” He rolls over onto his side. “I cannot stress to you how much badness there is in it. It’s Tuesday, Ned. Both of us have got to face him tomorrow, and for the rest of the fucking week.”

“Alright,” Ned says, “so there’s that.”

There’s a knock at their door. “Boys?” Sherry’s voice calls from the other side.

“Holy everloving shit,” Conor stands up and then freezes. He turns to his friend, “He knows where I fucking live Ned!”

Ned looks just as terrified as him. “So there’s that.”

The knock comes again.

Conor knows that hiding in his room won’t help his maturity case, so he walks to the door and opens it even though all he wants to do is crawl under his bed.

Sherry doesn’t wait for him to say hello. “Conor!” he says. “Ned too, wonderful.” He steps inside the room and looks around, as if nothing’s the matter.

“I hope you two are having a good night.” Conor wonders if by some miracle Sherry hasn’t seen the note. “Have you read this?” he asks Conor, handing him a piece of paper.

Conor reads it.

“Or else,” he turns to look at Ned, completely aghast. “ **Or else**?”

Sherry smiles. “That was my favorite bit too,” he turns to look at Ned. “You do know that I can tell the difference between his and your handwriting, right Ned?” he asks. “It may have gotten lost in all this, but I’m your instructor. I grade your papers.”

“Would you look at the time.” Ned gets up and starts shoving his feet into his trainers, not waiting to properly get them all the way in, or lace them up. “I’ve got to go, bye!”

Conor tries to catch him before he can escape, but he’s too quick. “Ned, we can’t,” he starts to yell, but Ned’s already gone from the room, and screaming after him will just bring attention Conor doesn’t want, “be alone together in a room,” he finishes lamely, low enough that only Sherry will hear.

Sherry claps his hands together. “Well,” he says, “let’s go for a walk.”

They’re quiet until they reach the grounds. It’s pretty dead out, early in the week with curfew due to kick in an hour or so. They keep walking until they’re near the rugby field, and by then Conor can’t stand to be quiet any longer.

“I still think you’re cute,” he says, because he figures it’s a good thing to start off with.

It gets dark early, this time of year, but he can still make out Sherry’s blush. “Conor,” he says, voice not sounding at all firm, “stop.”

“Well I do!” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers and wishes he’d thought to grab his blazer. “It’s my birthday in two weeks, do you know that? _And_ I graduate next term. I’d like to take you out on a date, once I do.”

Sherry’s gotten redder. Conor instantly regrets saying that he’s willing to wait for the summer to come.

“Your age is hardly the problem here, Conor. No good will come out of this,” Sherry says. “This is just an infatuation, and it will pass, I’m serious.”

Conor shakes his head. “You don’t know that,” he says, “And besides, what if I don’t want it to pass?”

“You know what? Sure, Conor. Fine, I agree,” he nods, “We’ll discuss it again once that time comes. Now, please, get Ned to stop.”

“I will,” Conor promises. “It feels weird to say thank you but, uh, thank you? For giving me a chance,” he feels a bit giddy, like he does when he drinks. “Well, a second chance. I’m so sorry I ghosted you.”

It startles a laugh out of Sherry, one he quickly tries to cover up. He places a hand over his mouth and hums. “I’m serious about Ned though.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean,” Sherry shifts his hand from his mouth to point over to a row of trees. “Ned’s been following us, please make him stop.”

Conor can just barely make out the red of his hair against the near-black outline of the leaves. “Ned!” he shouts.

He starts to run over to him, ready to finally murder Ned once and for all, but then he stops. He jogs back to Sherry and hugs him tightly for just a second. “I really want to kiss you right now,” he says, lips catching on Sherry’s ear, words coming out in a rush of breath, “but I’m trying to be good.”

Conor lets go and allows himself a moment to savor Sherry’s expression. It’s not dissimilar to how he’d looked when Conor had sucked him off during their night together.

Flashing Sherry a smile, he runs off to rein in his friend.

 

* * *

They manage to convince the doorman to let Ned in this time, after they promise up and down that he won’t drink, and that they’ll both leave within the hour.

“My first gay club.” Ned’s eyes dart around the place, practically feasting on what he sees. “Happy birthday, buddy.”

Conor rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says, “because all I wanted today was to get your scrawny arse into a club with me. I suppose it's better than the harmonica.”

Ned opens his mouth to say something back — and promptly snaps it shut.

“Sherry’s here,” he says.

“Fuck off.”

“Happy birthday,” Sherry says, right into Conor’s ear.

Conor jumps right out of his skin. “Mr Sherry,” he says, before making a face at himself, “Dan, hello.” He feels his age, then, unsure of himself. He wishes that he’d thought to pregame with Ned before they’d come; he’d only expected them to spend a little while at the club before Ned got bored and they pisssed off to the cinema.

“Hello,” Sherry says. His eyes stay on Conor’s face for a moment before they slide over to Ned. “Ned, do you mind playing lookout for a second?”

Ned’s face is comical. Conor would laugh at it if he didn’t feel just as surprised.

“Are you serious?” Ned asks. “I mean, uh, no? I’ll look out.”

“Wonderful.”

Sherry takes Conor’s hand and leads him back to the mens. It’s early enough in the night that there aren’t that many people back there up to no good, though nobody gives them a second glance when Sherry walks into one of the stalls and pulls Conor in alongside with him, closing the door behind them.

He kisses Conor, before Conor can think of something stupid to say, which is probably the best birthday gift Sherry ever could have given him. He gets his feet under him and stands to his full height, so that he’s pressing down as he kisses Sherry, practically devouring him.

They pull apart from time to time, to breathe mostly, but then Sherry starts slipping in words, turning their kisses into punctuation.

“Maybe we can do this,” he says, kissing Conor again, “from time to time,” another kiss, “if we’re careful. But just this.”

Conor nods, eager, and manages to get his hand down the front of Sherry’s pants.

“Conor,” he says it like he’s annoyed, but his hands are undoing his belt and lowering the fly of his trousers, giving Conor’s hand room to work.

“I promise I’ll be more careful,” Conor says, “After this. It’s just — it’s my birthday, and Ned’s keeping watch.”

Sherry’s giving him his amused look, though his face is flushed. “And all you want for a gift is my dick, is that it?” he asks.

Conor gives him his best smile. “How’d you guess?”


End file.
